


More Than One Can Chew

by IncessantCalibration



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Comedy, Food, Gen, Tournaments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 20:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6092797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncessantCalibration/pseuds/IncessantCalibration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pressure is mounting on Lavellan. Cullen's turning back to the Lyrium. Josephine cannot handle her workload and her love. In a bid to hold the crumbling Inquisition effort together, the Iron Bull and Sera (alongside their coach Dorian) look to help out the only way they know how. By eating their way out of trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than One Can Chew

**Author's Note:**

> “Ask not what you can do for your country. Ask what’s for lunch.”  
> \- Orson Welles

‘That’s another 200 gold pieces less than last month’s…’  
A single, steel finger underlined a passage on the parchment lying across the table, more sun-kissed thanks to the setting sun beginning to rest its weary head on the mountainous guardians of Skyhold, beaming through the window. Commander Cullen loudly sighed, turning to the picturesque scene of the sun’s descent.  
‘The North Heartlands are always prominent supporters of our cause; we will remind them of this and send an extra party to raise funds there.’ The Inquisitor stood across the table, unsure as to whether she was reminding Cullen, or herself.  
‘Whilst that course of action would be most wise, my love, unfortunately the funds from Cumberland have yet to arrive, and it might be advisable to send the extra party to their shores.’  
At this news, the Commander engulfed the seated Josephine, his body dropping her figure into shadow as he loomed above her, great and menacing. His size had always been noticeable to the Inquisitor, but with the last light of the sun highlighting his shoulders and petite figure of Josephine seated beneath him, he embodied the look of a ravenous bear more so than ever.  
‘This isn’t enough! We were looking to expand our forces and deliver a clean out of Red Templars through the Dales. Without the funding I can’t make the shipments for more armour and weapons!’ Leaving Josephine, or his prey, to live another day, he moved away from the negotiator’s shoulders and made for the ajar timber door across the tight room. ‘This is useless! We might as well give Thedas to Corypheus!!’ And with a palm as powerful as a horse’s kick, he bashed the door wide open and swept away, sucking the air out of the room in his wake.  
Just as the Commander had left, silence arrived. It sat, lonely in the room, as Josephine stared at her exhausted lover, shoulders hunched up, gripping the back of the chair so tightly her knuckles turned as white as her pale complexion. Lavellan’s head hung heavy, her eyes tightening like a child’s face tasting lemons for the first time.  
‘It will be alright, my love. I will head over to my study and call in favours owed by a couple of Nevarran nobles who I helped years back. It’s amazing what arguments can arise from Bronto racing…’  
‘No please,’ her hand swatted away the suggestion, ‘I don’t want you working any later than you normally do,’ her voice began to break away at the edges, ‘I just, need… I just need a minute.’  
The elf rubbed her forearm across her red eyes, smothered a sniff and ran for the open doorway, leaving Josephine in silence’s cold company. Her eyes sagged at the thought of her strong girl, the one who had knitted a fabric of companions together just as the Warden and the Champion had, creating a tapestry for posterity, being so upset at the concept of loss, at the idea that Corypheus might win, that all her work, like a sheet in the wind, might blow away. The thought of the darkness that would consume, the love that would wither and the doom upon the world that would become.  
Despite Josephine’s familiarity with silence and loneliness, she realised now was the time to be with her love, and too headed for the doorway that her friends had frequented. As the chair scrapped back across the uneven stone slabs below, she suddenly swore she noted a movement, a wisp across the air, a shimmer in the atmosphere. Looking around, there was nothing. Reaching for the candle erect on the table, her eyes scanned the tiny space, seeing nothing in the dying sun’s orange encore. Her heart pounding, knowing stories of rogues who had mastered the art of illusion, she grasped the papers messily cast across the table and leapt out of the room, like a child who had just blown out the final candle and was engulfed in darkness.

His fingers were feeling, bristling, the straw-like black hair at the edges. Stroking. Twisting. Sculpting. He opened his mouth for the big finish.  
‘And then he said, “I only wanted the trebuchet!”’  
Iron Bull launched himself forward, off the back legs of his chair, spewing the entire contents of his mouth across the table. Ale, roasted druffalo and stuffing became momentarily airborne as they burst across the tavern in all directions.  
‘EWWWWW!!! Big guy!!!!!’ Sera had managed to evade the majority of the fragmented meal, the rest decorating her shielding forearm.  
‘That joke always receives the same messy reception,’ Dorian mused, wearing his favourite purple Sea Silk robes, now adorned with bits of chewed dinner. Strangely, the mage hadn’t moved despite being in direct line of fire from the Qunari’s blunderbuss of a gob. Dorian revelled in his own charm and charisma, and if it meant getting messy every now and then, so be it. At least his moustache was looking fantastic and food-free.  
‘That was brilliant!’ bellowed the mercenary, trying his best to tidy up, at least so he could continue with what he had started, ‘but how did the Fereldan get back home?’  
‘It’s a joke, my dear horned oaf, don’t read too much into it,’ Dorian replied.  
Sera had regained her balance and had angrily reached for her bow, ready to deliver a striking blow across the Bull’s head (the only punishment he understood), when a boy’s figure began to emerge from the smoky tavern air. Just as the friend of Red Jenny was about to complete her arcing blow, the air, forming into a hand, closed around her wrist. Sera swivelled and saw the brim of a large, floppy hat figuring into view, but his partially obscured eyes weren’t looking at her, but, seemingly, at nothing at all. The boy spoke quickly, face contorted into a sad puzzle, ‘Division. The weeping of the good should not withhold action. Girl talking outside, food launching inside, division rectified everywhere. I hope, no, maybe…’  
‘Oh maker, the village spirit has made an appearance,’ noted Dorian.  
‘Slow down, my boy, what are you talking about?’ Iron Bull had managed to polish off the discovered pieces of the flying dinner, and was beginning to tackle his third plate of Druffalo ribs.  
‘You. You’re eating.’  
‘Well, he was until I told a story about a Fereldan man and his mabari looking for-’  
‘Save the food,’ said the boy spirit.  
‘Pardon?!’ Iron Bull questioned.  
The now obvious figure of Cole, immediately evaporated, reappeared directly behind the Bull and wrapped his arms around his throat, fumbling, fingering, at the honey-glazed druffalo meat on the plate ahead.  
‘GET OFF MY FOOD BOY, OR IT WILL BE THE LAST THING YOU DO!’  
‘SAVE THE FOOOODDDD!!!!!’  
Sera quickly hurled herself up onto the table, running over to the choking Bull, kicking and clearing plates with her urgent feet as she went. By now the Chargers had been alerted to the presence of a spirit throttling their leader during supper, and stampeded over to free the surprisingly-strong boy from the ball of Qunari fury. The Iron Bull started to curl inwards, storing all his energy in his gargantuan legs, and exploded upwards lifting the table and screaming Cole up off his feet simultaneously. With all the furore going on, and the entire company of Chargers, plus their enormous commander all grasping at the boy in a maelstrom of arms, elbows and fingers, Sera noted this was a good time to sample the Bull’s Druffalo ribs safely. Dorian, inspected this image with interest: the whirlwind of destruction smashing tables, the look of horror in the soldiers’ eyes running from the annihilation of a full-scale bar brawl, all horns and screams of ‘SAVE THE FOOD’, and the elven girl atop the table picking at food and licking her fingers as the sticky residue clung to her fingers. Finally, this is where he wanted to be.  
Eventually, the Bull got a strong enough hold of the boy to throw him off his back, over his horns and down, like a cockroach sprawling on its back, onto a nearby table. Pinning him down with the weight of his mammoth arms, and a smirk sharpening across his mouth, the Bull shouted, ‘I’ll give it to you, you fight like a rabid hare! But now, tell me what the bloody hell you’re on about!?!’  
Despite not having a working pair of lungs, death was to blame for this awkward problem, Cole still felt the innate urge to catch his breath, before beginning his explanation.  
‘The Inquisitor, sad, Josephine, the one with the sunlight shoulders, sad, the angry one with gorgeous eyes, sad. I heard them talking about money, and then there was the girl in the courtyard talking about making money through the strange way you eat, and then you were eating in that exact same way, but you must save it, for the competition.’  
Bull was as confused as ever.  
‘It is in Orlais, a noble man, with large eyes and smaller stomach, expectations never fulfilled, appetite never fulfilled, so he invites those to fill it for him.’  
Bull was expecting more, maybe something that made perhaps the slightest bit of sense, but Cole just looked up at his colossal captor and succinctly added, ‘That’s it.’  
‘Oooh hold on!!’ Dorian snapped his fingers and moved for the first time since, seemingly, the fight. ‘He’s talking about Baron Duschemel!’  
‘What the one with the big belly and the eating competition?’ commented Sera.  
‘That would be rather obvious to link up wouldn’t it, my dear?’ cut the Tevinter mage before continuing; now walking among the survivors of the tavern’s brawl like he was delivering a sermon. ‘Every winter he has a feasting competition; two entries are allowed from each region, one boy, one girl and the winner gets a pot of 5000 gold! I would have entered but one of the rounds was belly of bear and-’ Dorian suddenly burst into laughter, slapped one of his knees and bent over, a fit of giggles erupting deep from within him. Straightening up and smiling at the crowd of confused faces around him, he completed his train of thought, ‘and- ha, can yo-haha, you imagine me eating something so common!’  
‘But why I am doing it?’ said the Iron Bull, ‘I don’t get it, we’re doing fine I thoug-’  
‘Wet eyes, as the lovers argue over empty coffers, the Commander in his tower, thoughts dancing to the powder, the ore that controls.’  
‘Perhaps we are not doing as fine as the Inquisitor is letting on,’ noted Dorian. Dorian’s tune had changed from the twinkling star that revelled in the sight of so many people orbiting him, clinging on to every drop of information falling from his lips. He was instantly back, as his mercurial character so often allowed, into a body of all seriousness and business. ‘Maybe a little off time in Baron Duschemel’s company, maybe around competition time, with empty stomachs might be in order?’ And just like that the charm and wit were back in full force, commanding his every fibre of his magical personality like a puppet master.  
Bull thrust his clenched fists into his sides, ‘But you said a girl entry too, so who’s going with me? We need a girl who could eat Skyhold three times over!’  
Everyone looked down and put on their best “I’m thinking” faces, most of which the Chargers were not particularly good at.  
‘I’ve seen Cassandra finish a bottle of Antivan wine and a plate of wolf haunches before!’ commented Dalish, heplessly.  
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Inquisitor’s girl eat anything,’ said Krem.  
Grim just grunted.  
‘Well this is quite wonderful, until we have a viable female entry, we simply cannot enter without embarrassing ourselves.’  
When Dorian had finished assassinating the mood with his razor-sharp sarcasm, he turned to Sera. The very Sera who, with mouth as open as the rift in the sky, was drilling her murderous, disbelieving glare into the mage’s eyes. Dorian startled back at her look, adjusting his robe collar and covering his ability to be surprised from his current company. ‘What?!’ he replied, giving away his flustered mood with the rudeness of his discourse.  
‘YOU TWATS HAVE GOT TO BE JOKING ME.’  
Silence had swiftly made its way from a candle-lit meeting with Josephine and stumbled into the tavern, where it promptly hung from the beams and throughout the building. It was ushered out by the elf’s shrill, furious voice.  
‘WHAT ABOUT ME?!?’  
No sooner had silence left, laughter arrived. It echoed throughout the pub, as the Chargers, the Iron Bull, and Dorian stood bellowing out laughter and pointing at the petite, elven girl who was suggesting she should enter the eating competition. There was even the sound of a small boy sniggering under a floppy hat. Krem was the first to regain himself,  
‘You?! You think you can put away as much food as the boss!! I’ve only ever seen one thing eat more than this great oaf and it was put down the next day in mercy; mainly through fear of it exploding.’  
Sera stood there, a beacon of embarrassment and shame. She had a thousand and one comments she wanted to smartly retort with, but none of them could make it out of her closing throat. It was a school child’s nightmare, your best friends and your closest allies, pointing, actually pointing, and laughing at your inability, at your weakness. Just as Sera was about to turn away, and burst out of the door quicker than an arrow from a fully-drawn warbow, she saw the table they had originally sat at, and stared. Once the gathered hyenas had finished their cackling episode, they caught her eye line and followed it. One by one they fell silent, until last of all, the Iron Bull came to a close seeing what the friend of Red Jenny had accomplished. On the table was an empty plate where Bull’s Druffalo ribs once sat during the brawl with Cole, completely finished, like a pride of ravenous lions had spent hours over it. Instead, however, Sera only had the brief minute the fight had ensued, and looking back at the shocked party, she found her voice, calmer than even she expected,  
‘Explain that, dicks.’  
Dorian, like the seasons of spring and autumn, all change, smiled and announced,  
‘I think we have found our girl, gents.’

As the Inquisition entry slowly rode up to the shining brass gates of Baron Duschemel’s luxurious hillside mansion, flanked by a small armed retinue clad in sunshine yellow and polished silver, Dorian Pavus, (newly appointed manager of the shameless attempt at bolstering Inquisition finances) had an opportunity to reflect on how exactly they had succeeded in getting the idea past Inquisitor Lavellan. Initially, it had struck the magister how long it had taken for his charm to work on Lavellan. Despite his absolute loathing of his father, he had always been brought up as the eventual head of house Pavus and, therefore, an influential character at court. He prided himself on his sumptuous prose, exquisite delivery, and faultless image; all departments he may, or may not, have worked on immediately and meticulously in his study after the fracas in the tavern. He had learnt that spontaneous action was not all it had cracked up to be, and thus, preferred the prepared approach to winning people over, and if everyone else saw him as a maverick with words, then all the better. Secondly, after the time it had taken, it was the manner of Lavellan’s acceptance that had surprised Dorian most. It wasn’t so much the fact that it was actually Cole’s scarily canny tactic of scaring everyone witless followed by delivering truths like dagger blows in the back, that startled him, nor indeed the Herald’s breaking down in tears at the thought of losing all she loved and built, but the words she said after accepting the idea to compete. They wrung in his head, as clear as the white Baron’s fortress in front of his eyes, ‘Don’t you dare lose this. Beat them. Beat them all.’  
The words had inspired the ferocious roar of the Bull, the salute of profanities from Sera, but, more importantly of all, the respect of Dorian. He saw in that face, the steel-hardiness, the dogged reluctance to give up when the wolves were at the door, why they were going to win, why no matter how many men or demons Corypheus would enslave, hire or force to fight by his side, that this Inquisitor, and her loyal guard of followers, were going to save the world.  
‘Well, well, well!! What do we have here?’  
The sound of a booming voice and heavy footsteps snapped Dorian out of his reverie. ‘Is this the Inquisition here for my merry little show? Running out of your own supplies up there in the mountains?’ His final words were chased out by a deep baritone laugh, whilst Dorian exchanged looks with an increasingly agitated Sera. He could feel her disapproval with every sight of his large, fat belly, alongside his scrawny, shivering servants in the winter air.  
‘I believe I am conducting affairs with the Baron of this estate and that of the feasting competition we would like to enter?’ began the Tevinter mage.  
‘ENTER?!’ The laughs were coming thick and fast now. ‘The Inquisition wishes to enter my competition?’  
Bull got in before Sera could split his gargantuan neck clean in two with an arrow, ‘Frightened you might be helping someone other than your clique of nobles out?’  
Suddenly, his laughs were cut short and rumbled into a low, more menacing snort, like thunder echoing away in the distance.  
‘Well, it just so happens, that only those of noble birth are allowed in, and considering that no matter how pompously you enter, I do believe that only Madame du Fer of the Inquisition is of the correct highborn stature to enter. I do hope you don’t mind if I retire and bid you farewell, this conversation is fast becoming tiresome.’  
With this, the Baron grinned so satisfyingly to himself that it was as if a freshly baked mountain of pies had been set down in front of his bulging mass, and he turned, beginning his ascent back up the castle steps.  
The way Dorian Pavus dismounted made him look like the lord of war. The fluttering Fustian velvet coat flapped in the biting breeze as he surmounted the steps, two at a time. The two servant boys stepped in front of him, fear captors of their eyes, their bodies, nothing more than sticks separating a predator from his prey. Dorian whipping his fingers under their chins, the black smoke of magic wisping across the air as the two boys, fear now eclipsed by a whitish hue in their pupils, parted, allowing Dorian free march to the turning Baron. From his back, Dorian grasped his staff, pointing the tip straight at the Duschemel’s opening mouth, touching it to his lips just as a scream was shut off in his throat. His high-born lips began to close, his substantial jaw fighting the magic that was sealing his mouth tight. With strain etched all over his face like a serious bout of indigestion, and Dorian finishing his dark whispers under his breath, the Baron stood, silent with his mouth fused together, his lips disappearing as a single sheet of skin now covered what was so commonly accepting food in, and insults out. It was Dorian’s turn to talk,  
‘I am Dorian of the House Pavus of Qarinus in the Tevinter Imperium. Considering your entry stated noble birth, and that I was born into the house Pavus under the tutelage and protection of Halward Pavus, enchanter and magister of the Imperium, I am able to enter. As Madame du Fer is also of the same noble right, we both enter your competition. However, as I have been struck down by a peculiar case of Orlesianitis, and Madame du Fer has received terrible news from her physician that all her pre-competition training has caused a most uncomfortable stomach ulcer, both she and I will be unable to take part. We therefore announce that the Iron Bull of the mercenary group the Chargers, and Sera, friend of Red Jenny, will take our places, just as a replacement was given to Duke Blanchard in last year’s event.’ Dorian, with full command of the shocked Baron’s attention, clicked his fingers allowing an Inquisition soldier to come running up the steps with two large scrolls under each arm. ‘These scrolls are both signed by Viviene and myself, and therefore allow the exchange to take place, my dear man. Now, I understand that this beginning has been a tad traumatic for the both of us, just look at me, I am shaking like a leaf, but I do hope we will be entertained like none of the others, housed in your best suites and, of course, allowed to play along in the interest of fairness? After all, if we suddenly went missing in the night, or poisoned at the final hurdle, we wouldn’t want Inquisitor Lavellan to come down here and make your new facial construction permanent, would we?’  
And with the final flourish, Dorian touched the Baron’s pale face with his staff once more, swivelled on the spot, and gave a scarily hearty smile to his companions before triumphantly striding back down and remounting his horse. He afforded himself one momentary glare back at his companions, in particular towards Sera, who returned it with a devilish smile, full of wicked pride. Perhaps, Dorian thought, there was something to be said about spontaneous action, after all.

The first day’s competition had passed, relatively, smoothly. The rounds had been explained at the very beginning, with all the contestants seated along one side of a long banqueting table, whilst chairs upon chairs had been arranged facing them, allowing an audience of involved, invited and, otherwise, bored spectators to enjoy the competition’s nauseating entertainment. There were three rounds: the first being a last man, or woman, standing event, with speed being the primary concern, leaving all those outside the first four to finish eliminated. The second round would be a dish so revolting that Dorian could only imagine it would have been created by a sick, or starving, mind, whereby the first two to (somehow) finish would enter into the final, consisting of a feast set out for just two people to struggle through to victory. Fresh off the back of his verbal slaying of the Baron on the front steps, Dorian was in full managerial swing as he reminded his two gladiators of their duty to the Inquisitor, the Inquisition and the world.  
_Don’t you dare lose this. Beat them. Beat them all._  
As the sheets of white were swept away revealing honey-covered Druffalo ribs, Iron Bull and Sera exchanged a glance of pure joy. Druffalo ribs, their _favourite_. The heavy call of the gong reverberated through the room and within the contestant’s empty stomachs, signalling the beginning of the event. Amidst the sound of tearing meat and snapping bones, Dorian could physically hear the growl at the base of Bull’s throat as golden ribs continuously slipped down his gullet and into the bottomless pit stored away behind his herculean torso, like an empty coffer shielded by thick, muscular walls. Sera, meanwhile, couldn’t help but reveal her emotions all across her perfectly childish features, the food sometimes struggling to pass through the beaming smile occupying her face. Both worked in tandem as each bruised red mountain fell smaller and smaller, and the grease-smoothed silver bottom of their plates came into show. Only briefly did they lose concentration, mainly to eye up each other’s position and count how many slender meat delicacies they had left. At these times Dorian would let out a customary call, one they both recognised, and their professional nature would force them back to the task at hand. Moments later, just as the Inquisition’s finest archer was finishing off her last rib, she heard the deep cry of a mouth full of Druffalo expel in triumph followed by the familiar sound of Qunari footsteps thunder their way back up to the gong behind them. It was a death toll to Sera’s ears and her eyes betrayed her mission as she saw the great mercenary strike the metal disk and signal his first place finish. She understood that her little show at the tavern had convinced the others she was worthy of her place as the female of the team, but during the meeting with Lavellan, and even the journey up, she had known of the Bull’s reputation. He held an aura of the warriors of old, living by a code of primitive, barbarian ethics. Kill first, never back down, take what is yours. This applied to everything in his life, none more than his dinner. His own, personal Qun. And though he had been ultimately complimentary of her skill with his ribs at the brawl, and she knew his politeness belied his primordial nature, she couldn’t help but feel she was the weak link, the unwanted member, the odd one out.  
‘SERA! FINISH THE BLASTED RIB!!’  
During her momentary dreamlike state, two more gongs had sounded and with one place left the Bull had strode up to the elven girl and was screaming in her face, alarm written all over his. She was almost sure it was a loose bit of Druffalo ejecting from a lodged position in his mouth that had ended her reverie. Yet before she could think on it any longer, the creek of a relieved wooden chair under the substantial weight of a fat Orlesian noble moving away, snapped her into action. Ramming the final, dripping meaty delight into her mouth, the pair turned in a sprint to the gong. As sprints went, Dorian was positive this was the slowest one he had ever seen, whilst the Bull, momentarily forgetting the importance of having Sera in the semi-final, mused on their similarity to baby Qunari taking their first steps. As the duo of sick-looking faces stared at each other in anguish at their slow progress, Sera remembered that feeling, not of sickness or of the complete uselessness of her legs under such a burdenous weight, but of disbelief. The faces of the cackling hyenas when she had suggested her participation. The shock of Lavellan at little Sera wanting to take part. Sera who kept herself to herself, and only played with the shadows. Suddenly, all her feeling was gone and the agility returned, her face contorting like it always did when something mattered. Sera took one bounding step and then another, grasping for the mallet, and smashed the centre of the gong, watching the laughing, smirking faces crumble shatter into a thousand pieces. And then, she vomited, everywhere.

‘Beat them. Beat them all.’  
With the message ringing in their ears, the two Inquisition entries turned away from coach Dorian, albeit one far paler than the other. Sera had not quite recovered from her ordeal the day before; the image of horror plastered across the audience’s faces as she turned the purple carpet a distinct shade of cinnamon was engrained in her mind. Though the Bull had comforted her with the comment that there had been others who had thrown up afterwards too, she was pretty sure they had not decided to take their triumphant moment on the top step to be the time to do it. And now her nerves for the second round had brought about a shade of rose to her otherwise pale complexion, whereas the Bull was handling the complete opposite issue. He had had a wonderful night’s sleep, a welcomingly impressive morning workout (considering the Manor’s poor gymnastic facilities) and was heartily ready to take his deserved place in the final. Yet, once Dorian had asked to meet them by the doors to the competition room, the fell stench that festered and rotted in the air, causing even the flies to flee, had left him somewhat queasy, the colour leeching from his already grey face. The room itself was far smaller and darker than the last, with a single opening in the roof allowing a piercing spear of light to soak the centralised square table, with four chairs and, ominously, four silver cloches adorning it. The atmosphere was set up for sin, the beam of light being the only peep hole for the most twisted of gods to watch the day’s vulgarities.  
As the pale and the red-faced pair were about to turn from their Tevinter manager, they found their arms caught in a vice-like grip, and nothing but mischief in the mage’s eyes.  
Bull was the first to connect the dots, ‘Oh what have you done now you blasted mage?’  
‘Let’s just say, it pays some times to stay up late and play Wicked Grace with your fellow contestants before a day’s competition. Don’t you think?’  
The fear and embarrassment that had been corrupting Sera’s mind turned to competitiveness and confidence, like an assassin spotting a weakness in the armour of a deadly foe. Dorian loved this part, watching them eat out of his hands, information being as valuable as gold. His eyes darker than Bull and Sera had ever seen them reflected the solitary light, twinkled as he divulged his secrets, cashing in on their revelry.  
After taking their positions, one on each side of the small table, the Bull dwarfing even the table, four servants arrived beside them and took grasp of the cloches. Sera couldn’t help but notice all the servants were wearing bandanas across their noses and mouths, and fear crept back into the room, like a murderer at his victim’s funeral. Fear, and the gathered crowd, watched as the cloches were removed and the servants reeled away as the smell rose up from their confinement, the cloths helpless against the repugnant odour. The containing of the _thing_ in front of them had only made the concoction of senses more refined, more intense. All four ogled at the slender, limp substances in front of them, the friend of Red Jenny unable to stop the words from tumbling out,  
‘Wh- What are these shitting things? Worms?’  
‘They, my dear, are deepstalker lips,’ replied the voice of Baron Duschemel, from somewhere in the darkness.  
‘But deepstalkers don’t have lips!’ squealed the challenger from Antiva.  
‘They do when it is severed from the fleshy maw around their mouths.’ Bull could hear the Antivan noble’s stomach gurgling and contracting as the smell filled up his lungs. ‘Oh and that smell is because they have been pickled and stored for the last year, we thought it might add something to the…’ he paused before longingly drawing out each word like a turn on a torture rack, his voice lathered in satisfaction, _‘aroma and texture.’_  
‘You’re a sick bastard you know that!’  
‘Yes and a rich one too, so if you want the money you better get eating. ENJOY!’  
And the contest began, not with a gong, but with that irritating, baritone laugh of the Baron.

Sitting like fine long fingers, slippery and cream-coloured, were four ‘lips’. The Bull, in typical fashion, was the first to attempt them, whilst the others, competition at the backs of their minds, sat, transfixed on his bravery. He struggled to grapple one as it slid around the plate, its membranous quality causing it to act like an eel out of water. Eventually, he caught it and held it up, assessing its pale look at eye-level before turning his gaze to Sera opposite,  
‘You better not tell anyone back home about this!’  
The lines on his scarred face cut deep as he scowled, said ‘Aww fuck it!’, opened his mouth wide and dropped the fleshy finger from above his head, letting it fall and slip down his cavernous throat.  
The audience, the competitors and even Dorian, held their breath as the Bull furled inwards, holding his stomach with one hand and covering his mouth with the other, his hand tightening into a clenching fist. His throat visibly began to ride up and down like a wave, his face barely discernible in the shadow of the lonely light. His single eye was closed, trying to shut out the world and concentrate on nothing else. For one moment he was still, next uncurling like a monster awakening from a hibernation of nightmares, before finally opening his single eye and observing the silence before him. His grin split his features like a knife, and Dorian felt himself expel a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The Bull reached down grabbed another, and another, and another before the plate was empty, only the slimy residue spilling secrets of the atrocity that had lain there before. In the fury of grabbing and chomping, Sera and the others snapped into action, panic spreading through their muscles like a fire. Soon the table was a mass of excitement as each sampled their first lip, and the reeled from the taste. The count gagged, whilst the duke spat out his, only to attempt it again, this time with added sputum to make his, as Dorian overheard Baron Duschemel say, ‘extra slimy’. He twirled his moustache in disgust as he saw the sparkle of inspiration in the Baron’s eyes, already planning to make ‘extra slimy’ a contributing factor to next year’s event. Meanwhile, Sera was on her second, but her progress was too slow in comparison to the Antivan count across from her. Breaking her racing thoughts, the Bull rose up showing his vanilla-coloured tongue and strands of flesh bridging his palette and jaw to the whole audience, indicating his completion with an animalistic roar. The adrenaline of panic kicked in again, as painful and quick as an arrow to the mind, and the hazy memories of the tavern of laughing faces and yesterday’s embarrassment rose up in the shadows surrounding Sera once more. Flashing sounds and sights passing and fading, Dorian’s warm face as he carried her from the gong, then the glance of revulsion he gave back to the Bull when he thought she couldn’t see. _Or was it regret?_ Regret at her departure to take part, to represent the only institution she had ever been part of. The laughing men at the tavern, the dastardly bastards who thought worse of her. If she lost, she would prove them right. The great Iron Bull right, little Sera wrong.  
_Ooh I like those odds._ An underdog. _I like those odds a lot, you pricks._  
The adrenaline that was hindering her suddenly sharpened her mind as she bent for the third, cutting through the slime and tearing into the stringy meat below. But just as she was about to go for her fourth and final delicacy, she saw the count with an empty plate and his jaws sawing away like great machines.  
_He hates the noise of retching. If you need to, do it._  
The adrenaline spoke in her ears like a vengeful angel, repeating Dorian’s words before the event as if he was right there, next to her, all comfort and assurance. Sera started to bare her eyes into the soul of the count, so large and foreboding that he could not help but return the invite. Once she had his attention, she dried out her throat and let a noise travel up from the base of her bowels, as sickening as the pale finger left on her plate. The Bull, realisation etched across his face, sat immediately back down from his victory salute, and too sucked air in and out of his lungs, allowing it to audibly catch on his gullet. With the Bull’s aid, Sera grabbed the last lip, still holding the count’s gaze, and licked the slick membrane away, her tongue outstretched, a taunting demonic tendril. The oozing liquid dripped from her surprisingly long tongue and settled in the centre of her silver plate. The Antivan count, unable to look away from the image so revolting, yet so captivating, abruptly hurtled down from the table and into the darkness. With one last bite, a wink at her struggling fellow competitor and a smile at her Qunari compatriot, the elven girl swung to the crowd and opened her mouth, victory supressing any thoughts of the horrendous food she had just conquered.

The day of the final loomed large in the minds of the Bull and Sera. Sure, Dorian was pleased with the outcome; Sera and the Bull had both made it into the final, and thus the grand prize was making its way to Skyhold, relieving the mountain of pressure on Inquisitor Lavellan’s plans. And yet, Dorian’s stomach was churning, up and under and over, surely worse than any of the competitors experienced during their rounds. The thought of Sera and the Bull going head to head was simply nauseating. It was like watching your favourite baby bird unwittingly being crept up on by a starving cat, except Dorian was behind a glass window with no way to save either the baby bird or the mauling to come.  
He had attempted to break the metaphorical glass and negotiate with them individually after the second round, with, predictably, poor results.  
‘If you think I’m giving up, after winning both rounds and getting all the way to the final, then you don’t know me half as much as I thought you did.’  
Sera’s response was a little more succinct.  
‘Oh piss off, beardy. I got this one.’  
Got this one? What part of the hulking mass of hungry Qunari have you missed, sweetie? Alas, the final was going ahead and there was little Dorian could do about it, even up until the last moments once the pair has started the feast of, admittedly, far more enjoyable delights on offer. The table that had held all of the competitors in the first round was now covered with plates of all kinds of food, from all corners of Thedas, designed to bring the pair to their knees in one last battle. It had started with friendly banter, too friendly, as Bull teased her about her size and Sera had retorted with something about incestuous behaviour with dragons. However, with the minutes, and the hours ticking by, the sun rising higher and higher, finally in to its zenith, silence reigned supreme. Their bodies now bulging after three straight days of incessant food, were beginning to slow down, their eating laboured, their task seemingly impossible. And yet, the servants kept returning and leaving, the sea of plates unveiling the table below. Unlike the rest of the audience, Dorian had remained throughout, admittedly, with a book out for the majority of the time, but he was observant enough to revel in Sera’s resilience in the face of the Iron Bull’s path of destruction. Every time a plate was finished Sera would match it, never letting a lead grow, and never letting the mercenary relax.  
Under his breath, occasionally, Dorian would mutter, ‘Elves… quite remarkable,’ thinking back to Sera’s strength in the ugly aspect of fear in the Fade and the nature of the Inquisitor’s rule.  
‘Proving quite a show, your boys,’ said Baron Duschemel to the Tevinter mage, who had been feasting on every belch and squirm of the finalists, like a demon of gluttony.  
‘And girl.’  
‘Pardon?’  
‘There is a gentleman and a woman up there, in case you haven’t been able to see them over your substantial belly.’  
Normally this remark would have brought a smirk to the face of Dorian, but it was cold and straight. His eyes had not once moved across his rotund host, and were instead transfixed on the table ahead. He began to move through the gathering crowd, fascinated by the nail-biting finale, and up to the table’s edge. There, in front of them all, slumped in wooden chairs, were the finalists, the champions of the Inquisition, with one plate each left. The amassed group hung on every movement, gasping when the Bull suddenly reared up, only to release an earth-shaking belch.  
‘Looks like this is it, elfie. I’m impressed.’  
‘I wasn’t here for your approval, dragon-banger.’  
The Bull’s laugh echoed through the hall.  
‘Good! I wouldn’t hope you were.’ A wicked smile played across his face once more, the smile that could captivate even the stoniest of hearts. ‘But it’s time to finish this, don’t you think?’  
The Bull leaned forward, his mass causing the chair to creak under him. Sera didn’t move a muscle, just watched, as the Bull lifted the last Bronto thigh to his lips, almost having to prise his mouth open to allow the flesh to pass his teeth, before closing his jaws around the succulent meat, like an ancient cave opening crumbling under the years of strain. He continued to chomp, and still the girl didn’t move. His face was still smirking, but his eye betrayed his confidence, searching for a reason for her inaction. He could feel he only had a couple of mouthfuls left, and began to make his charge, the Bull closing in on victory, when Sera, finally, began to move. Slowly, slower than the Bull had ever seen her move, she inclined forward and said, playing on every syllable,  
‘There was a Fereldan, and one day, he went in search of a trebuchet…’  
Fear. Fear that would have eclipsed the souls of the bravest, sunk deep down into the Qunari’s stomach, stodgier than any food could ever be. Like a lead weight, it dropped and suppressed on top of everything he had consumed, the meat, the ale, the bread, the stew, the soup, the pastries, and rose back up, forcing a blurt out of his mouth.  
She continued.  
‘So he strolled up to the first salesman, who was an Orlesian and he said…’  
His lone eye was now bulging out of its socket, as he played the memory on repeat in his head, the image of Dorian in the tavern explaining, _‘Want to hear a joke?’_  
His mind jumped ahead of Sera’s words, the line following line, the steady build-up, the growth of the farcical tale. Until, eventually, the punchline arrived.  
The great Iron Bull, shot back, a huge thunderous laugh exploding from his chest as the story collapsed in on his conscious. The food tossed up into the air, like a fountain of meat, giving Sera the chance she needed.  
_That joke always receives the same messy reception._  
She leant forward, rammed the last thigh in her mouth, biting, sawing rapidly, all the while the Bull in a torrent of giggles. He then, with the laughter subsiding, tried to force the scattered remains down, like a Kirkwall pauper rummaging through the bins of the Hanged Man; but it was all in vain. The elf, standing proudly upright, her mouth cast wide open, turning to the audience in eagerness, was finished.  
Across the silent, confused crowd cut a lone, painfully slow clap. Dorian, his expression a heady mixture of delight and envy, stared up at the victorious girl, and stated, quite simply,  
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’


End file.
